Breaking Down
by words.my.voice
Summary: Sherlock's been back two weeks, and John has been nothing but pleasant. Just pleasant. But tension is running high and something's got to give eventually. (You can probably guess where this leads... Rated for a swearword and a bit of light slash.)


**So I should be working on my final paper and studying for my finals, but what the heck. I need a little motivation so please please review. **

**Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me, and this dissolved into basically cheese, and I still can't write smut to save my life, but I'm trying and getting a bit better! At least I think I am, you tell me. Baby steps. Review.**

It'd been two weeks and Sherlock was about ready to pull his hair out. It wasn't that he was bored, oh no, this was worse than boredom. This was an unsolvable case, one that was being rubbed in his face at every moment and try as he might he couldn't make any sense of the situation.

And John did not seem willing to help him out in the slightest.

Then again, that might be because John was the very problem Sherlock was going mad trying to solve.

More specifically, the fact that John was being pleasant to him. Not warm, not happy, not friendly or fond or annoyed or angry or amused or caring or anything he used to be. Just... pleasant.

When Sherlock had returned from the dead, standing on the doorstep fervently pretending he was not so nervous he was about to shake apart, he had expected shouting. He had expected swearwords. He had expected fury. He had expected, though did not hope for, punching. But he had also expected smiles, happiness, and fond "idiots".

Instead, he got silence. Silence as John stared at him, silence as John let him into the flat, silence as John listened to his story. Then John simply sighed, said "Well, welcome back," and then spent the next two weeks being _pleasant_.

It was highly disconcerting.

So Sherlock was stuck. John still greeted him every morning, but never offered to make him tea or ever moved beyond the minimum of cordiality. Sherlock had decided to wait it out, assuming that either the anger or, preferably, the restoration of their friendship would soon appear. But it had been two weeks, and John's behavior showed no sign of changing or explaining itself.

It was enough to make Sherlock want to start shooting the walls again. Though, he had tried that, and John had only sighed and said blandly that Mrs. Hudson would not be happy, which made the whole experience much less satisfying.

* * *

To Sherlock's surprise, the breaking point, when it finally came, was not related to the shooting or even to the new body parts in the refrigerator. Instead, it started out fairly innocuously.

"John, where's my book on apiology?"

"On what?" John looked up from the paper he'd been reading from his chair in the sitting room with a puzzled look.

"Beekeeping."

"Jeeze Sherlock, I probably donated it to a library."

"You donated it?!" Sherlock could feel the frustration mounting. "Did you keep anything? You give my science equipment to a school, and now my books are gone as well?"

If Sherlock hadn't started pacing in agitation, he might have caught the tensing of John's face and fists, a warning. As it was, Sherlock was too preoccupied to notice.

"I kept some things with sentimental value. The skull and your violin are over there."

"Yes, _sentiment_, but nothing useful!"

"Well, excuse me Sherlock, for not knowing exactly what you'd need when you miraculously came back from the dead," John replied in clipped tones. "What was I supposed to do? Make a shrine?"

"You didn't have to hand them off to be woefully mistreated for the sake of adolescent idiots. My bedroom was not being used, you could have put them there."

"For God's sake Sherlock!" John's voice rose as he tossed aside the paper and stood. "I'm not your widow! I couldn't sit here grieving for three years. I wanted to move on with my life!"

"So all those times I watched you visit my grave were you _moving on,_ were th—"

And John hit him. Down Sherlock went, caught by surprise and tumbling to the floor. For a moment, Sherlock just lay there, crumpled and touching his face gingerly, while John stood over him, breathing hard.

"You fucking wanker. You watched me? For three years, you just sat back and watched me struggle to recover from you _throwing yourself off a fucking building_, in between going off on your little adventures."

Sherlock didn't respond. He felt pinned to the ground, staring at where the corner of the coffee table had caught his arm on the way, leaving a tear and a slightly bleeding cut.

There was a slight sigh of bitter laughter, and he looked up. John was regarding him with a hint of exasperation.

"Jesus Christ. Even after everything, I still dodge your nose and teeth on instinct." John let out a breath and turned in the direction of the bathroom. "Come on then."

Nonplussed, Sherlock waited a beat before standing and following John to the bathroom. Without a word, John wet a washcloth and started dabbing at Sherlock's face. Sherlock stood very still, trying to breath normally, and observing John. All the anger seemed to have left, and there was an ease and familiarity to his movements that had been missing since Sherlock had returned. Some of the tension in John's body had disappeared.

"Why didn't you?" Sherlock finally asked softly, afraid of breaking the spell.

"Hmm?" John didn't pause in his ministrations, now applying a bandage to a cut Sherlock had gotten from the coffee table on the way to the floor.

"Move on? Go and marry some boring, ordinary woman. Move out and live a normal life as a doctor."

John gave a small smile at the bit about the woman, but started putting away the medical supplies, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Why did you watch me visit your grave?" he countered quietly.

Sherlock didn't answer as John continued putting things away.

"My widow."

John stilled.

"You said you weren't my widow. Why did you chose that word?"

John shrugged, glanced briefly at Sherlock. "Don't know. It's just the word that came to mind." He turned as if to go, but Sherlock's quiet murmur, stopped him.

"You might as well have been." Sherlock hadn't meant to say that. It was a thought really, that had just floated through his mind and escaped by accident, but now it was out and John had turned to face him with a quizzical look.

"You... you mourned me. Isn't that what a widow does? Mourn for the one they care about. You were the only one I had who fit that description." His voice trailed off in thought, then, glancing carefully as John, Sherlock couldn't help but voice the next automatic connection his brain had made. "We were a couple of sorts, I suppose."

John looked very pale. For a moment, he opened and closed his mouth, clenching his jaw and fists. Then he stammered a broken, "I—I can't, can't..." before turning away again and retreating to his bedroom.

Two weeks ago, Sherlock would have let him go, two weeks ago, Sherlock would have tried, however hard it was, to understand that John needed space, but that was two weeks ago, and it had been two weeks of nothing but space and Sherlock was done with waiting. There was too much space between them, and it was time to fix that.

He knocked softly on the door and entered slowly even though John didn't answer. John was sitting on the edge of the bed facing him, face in his hands. Sherlock approached him carefully, kneeling on the floor in front of him so he could be on the same level.

"My adventure comment wasn't fair," John murmured, not removing his hands from his face or showing any other sign that he noticed Sherlock's presence. "I'm sorry. It must have been hard."

"It was," Sherlock answered. "And I wished you were there." There was a beat, then what Sherlock had been wanting to say for two weeks finally slipped out. "I missed you."

After a moment of silence in which John didn't react to Sherlock's words, Sherlock spoke again, trying for once in his life to communicate to someone else the confusion and longing mixing around in his chest.

"I won't ask your forgiveness for what I did," he began ardently, his voice steady, even though Sherlock felt as if it, and he, might break at any moment. "because it kept you alive, and I will never, ever apologize for anything that kept you alive, but I am sorry for hurting you. Please believe me John, I never wanted to hurt you."

John took in a shuddering breath and Sherlock pressed on, his voice becoming less steady in desperation. "Please, John, I don't know how to fix this, I don't know how to make it right, but I want to. Just tell me how I can fix this, tell me what to do, and I'll do it. I—"

"I missed you too," John whispered, finally lowering his hands from his face, but with his head still lowered. "So fucking much. It felt like you blew a bloody hole in my chest." He raised his head and gave a burst of laughter. "Maybe I was your widow."

John and Sherlock stared at each other for a long moment. Then John suddenly leaned forward, pulling Sherlock into a tight embrace. Surprised, Sherlock felt his heart miss a beat, then quickly wrapped his arms around John, holding him as close as he could, as if afraid that John might disappear. How long they stayed like that Sherlock didn't know, but when they finally let go, it was only for John to rest his forehead against Sherlock's, eyes closed.

Sherlock, on the other hand, kept his eyes open, wonderingly. John was so close. Unable to help himself, he raised one hand and lightly touched John cheek.

Instantly John's eyes snapped open, and they started at each other, eye to eye, faces only inches apart, and Sherlock's hand still barely cupping John's face.

"Can I kiss you?" John asked abruptly, his voice barely more than a breath dancing across Sherlock's mouth.

For the second time, Sherlock felt his heart miss a beat, only to restart at three times its normal pace. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he couldn't help but whisper back, "What happened to 'I'm not gay'?"

"I didn't say anything about being gay, I just asked if I could kiss you," John murmured back, leaning in closer with his own matching crooked smile. "So what do you say, Sherlock?"

"Oh God yes," Sherlock breathed back, before all his remaining breath was swallowed by John and everything disappeared except for John's hand tangled in his hair and John's arm around his back.

Time seemed to bend around them, as Sherlock's buttons were undone and John's jumper ended up in a corner. It was natural, more natural than breathing and more seamless than water flowing together, the way they pressed together, wanted to be closer, ever closer, kissing and touching and gasping together. Sherlock felt as if all his hair was standing on end as the air heated up and crackled with the electricity John seemed to leave in every place he touched Sherlock's skin. The pressure mounted higher and higher, Sherlock pulling John to him so tightly he could hardly breath and when the break finally came, Sherlock gasped as if he was drowning and John choked out a sob.

Sherlock felt dampness on his face, and for a moment he thought John was crying. Then John's face swam into view, tender and worried and oh so caring, and as he touched Sherlock's face, Sherlock realized the tears were coming from his own eyes, streaming unchecked down his face.

"Shhh, shhh," John whispered, burying his face into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, and holding him tightly.

Sherlock embraced him back, still connected, and so full of happiness, relief, and a host of other emotions that he so often ignored, that he felt as if he might burst.

"John, I— I—" he tried to stammer out, but even though he could feel the words bouncing around his head, the sentiment practically screaming out in joy in his chest, his mouth couldn't complete the sentence. Someday, it could, someday, but years of being someone cold and closed couldn't change completely in a night, and though he knew he should probably fight with himself and say the words, all Sherlock wanted to do was wrap himself even tighter in John and fall asleep in the one place he could ever feel this happy and safe.

John's hand brushed lightly over his mouth, stopping the broken stammering. "Shh, it's alright Sherlock. I know." Sherlock swallowed, his heart slowing back down to lull him to sleep. And just as he was about to drift away, he heard John murmur in his ear, "and I love you too, " and Sherlock smiled.


End file.
